


Your Feathers and Your Paws

by nellii



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Transformation, Hurt, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Lion Ciri, M/M, Mouse Jaskier, Mutual Pining, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Whump, Wolf Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellii/pseuds/nellii
Summary: Shifters are rare species growing ever rarer as they're methodically hunted down and killed as being threats to royalty. Wolf shifter and Witcher Geralt finds himself tasked with babysitting two other shifters, his child surprise and his painfully loyal bard.On the Path, surviving as a shifter is much more difficult than it seems.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 161





	1. Feverbright

**Author's Note:**

> For Yeehaw and Llama and everyone else on the Discord for encouraging me while I wrote <3

When Jaskier first learned Geralt was a shifter, he refused to shut up until Geralt spun on his heel, grabbed the bard by the collar, and delivered the most words he had spoken in weeks.   
“Not everyone is as shameless as you are, Jaskier, and besides- shifting is an intimate affair, for friends or family, never in the open- not for _you_.”

“You’re right,” Jaskier protested, shoveling more dirt out of the hole we was surely digging himself in. “I’m not your friend, I’m your  _ bestest _ friend in the whole world!”

He considered it a miracle he didn’t get punched in the gut right then and there. Of course, Geralt knew from the day they met that Jaskier was a shifter. Unlike the rest of their rare kind Jaskier had absolutely no sense of self-preservation and flaunted his mouse form like a peacock would show off it’s feathers. Geralt saved his tiny ass from a number of situations where the wrong kind of folk caught wind of Jaskier’s shifting abilities. 

Most shifters were poached soon after the Conjunction of the Spheres. The few that survived bore children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, creating a long lineage of endangered shifters. Most of these lineages became the kingdoms ruling the Continent. The idea of shifting became one reserved for the highest royalty only, and looked down on in commoners. It was best for these blasphemous, cursed-by-fate shifters to stick together. A single rogue shifter would be hung, burned alive, or simply hunted down and brought before one of the many royal courts that put prices on rogue shifter heads. 

Geralt was one of these rogues. Not of any royal blood- Destiny’s greatest mistake as he liked to fondly call his ‘gift’. Not only a witcher, a mutant, a monster, but a blemish on the royal monopoly over the power of shifting. 

This wasn’t to say Geralt didn’t appreciate his ability to shift at times. When battling larger creatures like werewolves or endrega warriors, having the raw strength and razor claws of a wolf meant life or death. But nobody could ever know. Nobody but his brothers, his guild, and unfortunately a loud and mouthy bard. Calling him the White Wolf in his songs was already toeing the line. Geralt deeply regretted divulging his secret to Jaskier. He had felt safe knowing he was a shifter as well, but as soon as Jaskier learned this secret he practically announced it to the world. Now, Geralt had to be as careful as ever not to shift in front of prying eyes. He’d prefer to keep his head on his shoulders. 

It was another stroke of fate that he became tied to another shifter through the law of surprise. At the time he had no way of knowing that Pavetta’s daughter would be born with the ability to assume the form of a lion. It would be the thing that put her in the path of most danger when Nilfgaard came to break down Cintran towers and commit genocide in their streets. All to eliminate one young lion cub, to eliminate the threat of an enemy shifter becoming queen. This was perhaps the only reason the Lioness of Cintra finally sent Cirilla on a quest to find Geralt. She knew the White Wolf may be the only one able to protect her from Nilfgaard’s grasp. 

Geralt became Cirilla’s guardian long after meeting Jaskier and revealing his shifter identity to him. They’d been in and out of each other's lives ever since, often meeting just in time for Geralt to save his life from the royal chopping block. Jaskier showed up again a couple days after Geralt and Ciri met and began their journey to Kaer Morhen and had attached to them like a leech, refusing to leave until he saw them safely to the witcher keep. It might have been his instinct to seek out fellow shifters, or a paternal care for Ciri upon seeing the frightened princess safely in Geralt’s arms. Jaskier was always a softie. 

But there was a fourth shifter. Geralt wasn’t sure if shifter was the right word, or if human was best now- or if there was no word at all to describe Yennefer of Vengeburg. The only living person Geralt could recall that had seen him shift beside his packmates at Kaer Morhen. He’d transformed in the mayor’s house that fateful day with the Djinn. He let her stroke his silvery fur, ask as many questions as she liked. It was unbelievably refreshing to feel four wolven feet on the ground. And Yennefer only smiled and told him he’d better go tell his friends he was alive. He learned by their next meeting why she had pursued the Djinn. A wish to turn back time, to return to how she had been before her transformation at Aretuza. She, Geralt learned, was a shifter too. 

It was only a rumor to him up until now- that Aretuza students were stripped of every malformation, even those that ran blood-deep. Yennefer sought the same thing as he- the freedom to feel truly wild and open. 

But their paths diverged. Yennefer and Geralt did not stay together, but remained something of a distant fling. Geralt had his bard, now, and his cub. 

-

“Geralt, I’m  _ tired _ .”

“Geralt, he’s  _ tired _ !”

Yeah, well, he was getting pretty tired of listening to the both of them all day. Jaskier could stand a little light trekking if Geralt could stand hours worth of impromptu song and endless chattering. 

“Should’ve worn better footwear.” Geralt grumbled. Jaskier was alarmingly silent. Geralt eased up the pressure on Roach and glanced to the side to find his bard missing. His eyes widened for just a moment before he felt a delicate tug on his sleeve and the familiar pitter of little footsteps climbing up to his shoulder. “Damnit, Jaskier…” 

Ciri twisted her head around, bright eyes lighting up in joy as a little mouse crawled over the witcher’s shoulder and perched there just below his ear. 

“Much better.” The mouse- a tawny grey thing with two round ears and a little button nose, and bright blue eyes that to anyone who didn’t know better might have appeared blind. Field mice were not usually graced with cornflower blue eyes, but this was one of the telltale signs of a shifter. One retained eye color when transforming into their animal counterpart, as well as any scars or injuries. Geralt’s wolf, Jaskier imagined, was a great battered thing- pelt marred by many old scars. But he was surely magnificent. Oh, the songs he would write if Geralt ever let him see that beautiful side of him. 

“What if someone sees?” Geralt growled.   
“Who? We’ve been alone for miles.” This didn’t matter to the overprotective wolf. He shifted Roach’s reins to one hand and with the other, reached over and plucked the mouse from his shoulder and deposited him in his breast pocket. Jaskier curled into a contented little ball. 

“There.” The witcher returned both hands to the reins. Ciri was careful not to lean back on his chest and hurt Jaskier. “Safe.” 

“Always safe… with…” Jaskier trailed off into a yawn and then fell silent. Geralt could feel his little heart beating softly- a delicate and gentle sleep. 

-

When Jaskier woke up from his mouse-nap, Roach was slowing to a stop and the sun was low in the sky- still casting warm sunset light. He crawled out of Geralt’s pocket and scurried onto his shoulder again. Geralt dismounted Roach and helped Ciri down before tying the old mare to a tree and beginning to unpack their bedrolls. 

“Change back and help.” Geralt prompted. Jaskier always shifted to get out of doing work. When time came to do the heavy lifting, the bard was miraculously nowhere to be found. When, after a few moments the bard did not shift, Geralt snapped his gaze to the side and stared.

“What are you staring at?” Jaskier snapped. 

“Waiting for you to  _ change back _ .”

“You know, you can’t just make me change whenever you’d like.” Mouse Jaskier began to go off. “I’m an independent mouse with my own agency, and you-”

“ _ I  _ don’t shift to ignore my responsibilities.” Geralt reached up to grab the mouse and deposit him on the ground. Jaskier reacted by puffing up like an impossibly fluffy sea urchin and burying both front teeth in Geralt’s finger. 

“Fuck!” The witcher reeled his hand back at the sharp pain and Jaskier raced down the front of his chest and leapt onto the ground to transform back into good old classic human Jaskier. Also known as asshole Jaskier. 

“I am not a  _ pet! _ ” He jabbed an accusatory finger toward Geralt. 

“Right, you’re a fucking feral rodent.” 

Jaskier’s jaw dropped.

“How  _ dare _ you! I am not a rodent, I am a  _ mouse _ ! You- you-” Jaskier stuttered, cheeks red with anger. 

“You’re an invasive species, is what you are.” Geralt quipped.

“Is this because I sleep with married women?” 

“I know rodents fuck as much as rabbits, but honestly Jaskier- have some decency.” Geralt couldn’t hold his tongue. He kept pushing, picking away, watching Jaskier get angrier and angrier until he snapped. 

After a minute of furious babbling Jaskier snapped his mouth shut and gritted his teeth together and turned on his heel. “I am taking a walk!” He shouted a little too loudly. “Do not follow me!” He didn’t have to tell Geralt twice. The bard disappeared into the trees, kicking up dirt and muttering to himself. 

Blessed silence followed. Then a soft, resigned voice from behind him. 

“You didn’t have to be so mean…” 

Geralt had completely forgotten Ciri was standing not five feet away, watching with horrified wide eyes. He almost broke into a thousand pieces right there. He took a step toward her, expression falling. He didn’t have the words to justify what had happened just then. 

“Ciri, I…”

“Mice are fragile. Whether they admit it or not.” For all her youth, she had the air of ancient knowing from thousands of years past. More mature and knowledgeable than anyone could expect. “If he does something wrong you should talk about it. Not insult him.” The princess looked at Geralt with a small frown. “He’s fragile.”

-

He was absolutely pissed. How  _ dare _ Geralt call him a rodent- he was a mouse, a dignified creature unlike the uncouth nature of a  _ wolf _ . Lions were graceful, mice were swift and cunning, but wolves were simply brutes. 

But… no. Jaskier didn’t believe that. He had just felt such  _ fire _ bubbling inside of him when Geralt spoke to him that way. He may have been in the wrong as well, but… 

He froze. Leftover mouse instinct that had not yet left his veins rushed through him, up to his ears where the slightest sound pricked a prey response that had the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Something terrible was coming. It washed in on the wind, a sour scent of blood and rot matted in unwashed fur, of mange-decayed flesh clinging to twisted bones and of stinking breath- the scent of last night’s kill.  _ Wild dogs _ . 

He thought the ground was shaking, a terrible premonitinary earthquake, but it was only his legs weak and trembling in pure fear that immobilized and wrapped around his body like binding ribbons. He  _ couldn’t move _ . Dread rooted him to the ground like an immovable iron anchor. Heavy footsteps crunched dead leaves behind him. 

_ Was he going to die with his last words to Geralt being ones of hatred and frustration? _

_ - _

The scent of fear was sharp and unmistakable. Jaskier’s fear was the most striking scent of anything Geralt had ever come across. It was one of the only scents to startle him, to cause him a striking pain in his chest. He could feel his wolf pounding at it’s flesh and bone prison, begging to be let out, to run to Jaskier’s aid. 

“Ciri,” Geralt didn’t bother grabbing his swords. “He’s in danger. Stay  _ close _ .” 

The girl’s eyes widened briefly and then narrowed again. She shed her cloak and dashed toward Geralt, in mere seconds transforming completely into a young cub of decent size but not yet grown into a full lioness. Seeing her emerald eyes glint wildly in the twilight, feeling the protective determination the both of them were holding within them, he let his wolf break free.

Feeling dirt underneath his paws again was possibly the most extraordinary feeling in the world. He could almost even appreciate the wind in his ice-graced fur, but a packmate was in danger. His mind tunneled to just the path ahead and the illuminated ghost of footprints and the overwhelming stench of fear in the air to his bard and his love. He heard Ciri’s heartbeat steady close to his, and it reassured him, strengthened him. 

-

Jaws like a bear trap snapped down on his thigh and Jaskier crumpled. Those teeth were so strong, and he was so weak- small, an insignificant mouse, a pest even being beaten bloody by the great beasts of the forests. He hit the ground and heard them closing in around him. There had to be at least 5 or 6 of the beasts. The one with its jaws fastened around Jaskier’s leg was tearing and shaking ruthlessly. It released him and he felt his flesh tear as sharp canines ripped away. Another dog snapped by his ear, hot breath on his skin, ruffling his hair. It clipped his ear. 

He was frozen and he could not shift. He was going to die here. What finally delivered the electric shock that revitalized him was not the pain but the tugging feeling of the dog by his head clamping down on his shoulder and yanking. He felt like he could tear in two right then. He felt the blood, though, warm and sticky against his skin. 

Oh, no, it wouldn’t be the pain or the shock that killed him- it would be the bleeding.

A sound like crackling thunder cut through the air and reverberated in Jaskier’s bones. Pained yips, calls of death, blood in the air and splattering over his chest. It was not his own, it was dog blood. His head lolled to the side and he saw a bristling, snarling lioness standing next to him crouched in a defensive display of  _ do not come near do not come close _ . 

He was afraid and there was blood all over his nice red tunic and there was dog saliva infecting the tear in his leg and there was blood bonding his skin to fabric. He should get up and run, but he could not. He was so  _ afraid _ . 

-

Geralt tore through the pack of dogs no easier than a knife through butter. There was iron on his tongue and clumps of hair between his claws when finally there were 5 still bodies on the forest floor and the three of them remained. Snow fur stained red, Geralt padded toward where Ciri now knelt in human form beside Jaskier. 

“He’s bleeding,” her voice was tense and taut as a string, grabbing for Jaskier’s leg to press both hands down on the bite wound. The flowing blood pooled through her fingers. She couldn’t stop the bleeding. Though it bled less, his shoulder was also a spot of great concern. Geralt huffed and nosed Jaskier’s face gently. 

“Wake up, bard.” He said. “Keep your eyes open.” 

Jaskier’s eyes  _ were _ open, but he didn’t seem to see or recognize anything around him. 

“Ciri. Camp. Bandages and salve.” The girl burst off in a run and mid-step shifted back into a lion to bound at lightning pace to the camp. 

Geralt finally got a firm grip over his animal instincts. He forced himself back to human form. Shifting back after forcing himself to remain human for so long was difficult, painful almost, like a tearing sensation away from a sacred part of himself. But Jaskier needed human hands to staunch his bleeding. Jaskier needed human hands to comfort him and show him he was going to be okay. 

Geralt didn’t mind blood staining his skin, but he minded it greatly when it was Jaskier’s blood. 

“Jaskier!” He barked as the bard’s head lolled to the side. His eyes were still open, that was good. But not good enough. “I need you to say something. You need to let me know you’re still here.” 

Jaskier opened his mouth and made a wet noise- blood coloring his lips. “Saw… a white wolf.” He whispered. “A lion cub… a white wolf…” 

“Mm, they saved you,” Geralt bit the inside of his lip hard and at the same time pressed down with both hands laced together over the bite wound on Jaskier’s thigh. The way he  _ screamed- _

Ciri fell to her knees opposite Geralt and deposited handfuls of bandages and a pot of salve onto her lap. 

“Tell me what to do.” 

“Tear off his sleeve. Press it to his shoulder. Do not let up.” Geralt forced himself to take a stifled breath. “No matter how much he screams.” He could see there were tears hidden behind those brave eyes of hers. She was being so strong. She tore off the sleeve of Jaskier’s left arm- right below the bite- and pressed down hard. It didn’t take much longer for the bleeding to slow. And Jaskier had tired himself pleading with Geralt and Ciri to  _ stop it please stop it it hurts so much please please _ .

“Salve.” Thank the gods the wounds didn’t require stitches. But a lengthy healing process, certainly. Ciri worked quickly spreading the salve over broken skin both on Jaskier’s shoulder and his thigh. From here Geralt took over. He lifted Jaskier’s leg, ignoring the man’s whimpers, and wrapped bandages around and around. Then his shoulder. Geralt had to strip what was left of his tunic and hold him to his chest to maneuver the bandages properly. When he was done he let Jaskier collapse forward into his arms. 

“Stay awake, bard. You can rest soon.” With Jaskier safely in his grasp, he could look over Ciri. “Are you hurt?” He asked softly. She shook her head and took the salve. 

“Just scared.”

“You don’t have to be. Not anymore.” Geralt grunted and stood up. He carefully took Jaskier in his arms with his arms underneath the bard’s knees, bad leg closest to Geralt and injured shoulder cradled with care. He wouldn’t be able to play his lute, maybe even walk, for a long while. 

“He’ll die if he gets an infection, won’t he?” Ciri had her eyes cast down. Now she could let her tears fall, pattering on the bloodstained earth. 

“Yes.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.” 

-

Jaskier got worse when they lay him down back at the camp. Overnight he developed a dreadful fever and even shifted once, likely out of panic and confusion. Geralt had to catch him in a blanket until he turned back to avoid him hurting himself by running off and then rewrap his wounds. With every touch of cotton to skin, Jaskier cried.

Ciri was quiet. She watched Jaskier with a pale, fearful expression and jumped up every time Geralt spoke- eager to help in any way. 

They both knew they couldn’t stay here. They needed to find a medic, medical supplies, anything more than a simple salve and bandages. The mountains would be warm this time of year… the trip not so taxing on Roach… but she could not carry three people, even if one was small and another injured.

“Tomorrow, when the sun rises, we ride.” Geralt told Ciri on the second night. 

“I’ll walk.”

“No.” 

Silence. 

“Where to?”

Silence.

“To the School of the Wolf, to Kaer Morhen.”

-

Roach couldn’t carry much weight, especially on the upward trek, so Geralt set only Jaskier up there. He fastened Roach’s reins to her saddle and prayed that Jaskier didn’t topple over. Much to Ciri’s delight, Geralt transformed into his wolf form and allowed her to clamber upon his back for the journey. He was larger than the average wolf or wild dog, his head coming up to the average man’s shoulder. 

Ciri took handfuls of his silver fur and held tight as he broke into a gentle bound up the path. Roach followed obediently, footfalls gently rhythmic as if she knew she was carrying precious cargo. 

Sometime between morning and noon, Jaskier became lucid enough to speak. He seemed to gain awareness of his surroundings, too- leaning forward and gripping Roach’s saddle to keep himself steady. No doubt his head was swimming. 

“Do you need to stop?” Geralt asked. Without looking down, Jaskier shook his head. 

“Feel like… shit.” He groaned. 

“That’s fair.” Ciri shifted on Geralt’s back and lay her cheek on the top of his head. “You’re going to start hurting soon. Feel like it’s burning. Like you’ve rubbed salt in it. When you can’t stand it, tell Roach to stop and we’ll put on the salve.” 

Geralt’s voice gave Jaskier no confidence. Indeed it did begin to burn. Heat spiked from his left shoulder. It warped what little clarity he had left and cast him into a fevered paroxysm of pained whimpers. 

Geralt halted. Ciri clambered off of his back and ran to grab the salve out of Roach’s saddlebag as Geralt shifted back to human form and helped Jaskier down and set him against a tree trunk. The bard grabbed for his shoulder but Geralt slapped his hand away and tugged down his (Geralt’s, actually- Jaskier’s had been destroyed by the dogs) shirt and winced at the festering punctures. The skin around the canine marks was red and puffed up. Geralt took the salve from Ciri and scooped up the last of the healing ointment before as gently as he could applying it to the bite. 

And it  _ burned _ . 

“ _ Geralt _ !” Jaskier cried, and wrenched his body away. “Stop it, please, it hurts!” 

“Would you rather lose your arm?” Geralt had to shut off all emotion to keep his cool. To keep himself from breaking at the sound of that tortured voice.

“Stop, please please, it burns Geralt,” He began to dig the heels of his boots into the dirt and Geralt had to place a knee down on Jaskier’s uninjured leg to keep him still. 

“Hush, he’ll be done soon,” Ciri comforted. She took Jaskier’s hand gently and let him squeeze it as tight as he needed. “Then we’ll be at Kaer Morhen in no time.”

Jaskier parted his lips as if to respond but all that came was a stifled shout. 

When Geralt finished rewrapping his shoulder and leg, Jaskier took a deep breath now free from the pain, and collapsed forward into the man’s arms. He was shaking gently, likely too nervous to show his face wet and red with tears to Ciri. Geralt scooped him up, one hand under his knees and the other bracing under his back, and deposited him on Roach’s back. He needed to take a moment to gather strength enough to cling to the reins, but when he felt ready he turned to Geralt and gave a little nod. 

He was so  _ pale _ . If Geralt didn’t know better he would have thought all the blood had drained from his fragile body in the wild dog attack. His skin was pallor and translucent, completely unsettling to the man who knew Jaskier as a bouncy, full-of-life musician. Not this fevered shell of a man. 

Geralt shifted back to a wolf, his silver fur bristling with anxiety even as Ciri clambered onto his back and soothingly pet the top of his head. 

“He’ll be just fine!” The girl whispered to Geralt and scratched behind one of his ears. “Uncle Eskel and Lambert will fix him up, and Grandfather will mix some herbs from the greenhouse and his fever will go away. And if it doesn’t then I’ll ride down to the nearest town and find their mage and demand that she or he come right away and heal our Jaskier!”

Geralt rumbled, unconvinced. Ciri batted his forehead gently and he blinked, shook his head a little. 

“Don’t be a  _ pessimist _ .” She told him. That was a new word for her. 

“Hush.” Geralt quipped. “Rest. The path will become difficult soon, for both Roach and I.”

Ciri lay back down on his back and pressed her cheek into the soft fur around his neck. Her arms were linked loosely around his chest, buried in the thick layers of winter coat that hadn’t completely been shed. He had his pup safe and his bard nearby, within protective reach need he fight off anything that came to threaten his family. They were  _ safe _ . 

Jaskier made a rough noise from Roach’s back, something in between a moan and a sob. Geralt’s head whipped over, knocking Ciri alert. He caught Jaskier in his gaze just in time for the bard to flash a terrible shade of white, let his eyes flutter shut, and fall sideways off of Roach’s back into the dirt with a  _ thump _ .


	2. Reaching Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update!!! Enjoy and apologies for any inaccuracies, haven't worked on this verse in a while!

Geralt knew pain. He tried not to compare his pain to others- knowing it was relative, and that he had no idea what they were feeling. Pain was different for a mouse than it was for a wolf. A wolf could withstand arrows lodged in its hide and slash marks staining its fur for much longer than a field mouse, who would surely perish with a single slash from an owl’s claw. He didn’t know how Jaskier could stand it. Ciri said mice were fragile- she was wrong. Jaskier was the strongest man Geralt knew. 

But there was one pain Geralt could never put below others. The pain of the trials.

There were four of them. Trial of the Grasses and the Trial of the Dreams went hand in hand, the first administered decoctions to alter one’s nervous system, prepare it for the Trial of the Dreams. The Dreams hurt the most. Bones would shatter and regrow, cells tear apart and piece back together stronger and better. The Trial of the Mountains wasn’t so bad, if not a little tedious. The Trial of the Medallions was not an actual Trial, but named so by the boys and teachers of the keep. It didn’t count toward the total four. The Trial of Paws was the worst. If one survived the Grasses and Dreams, one was guaranteed to be forced through the Paws. It did not risk one’s life as the others did, but by all the gods did it send more boys to death than any of the other Witcher tasks combined. They boys that died during the Paws took their own lives. Couldn’t bear the pain. 

The Paws ripped into your soul, grasped the very essence of oneself and tore it away. It felt like being gutted alive, all your organs and heart on display beneath unwritten flesh and bone. The Paws held your beating heart in it’s cold stone hands, felt each thump and beat, squeezed it until every last drop of blood was gone. And then it imbued you with something new. The becoming was not so painful as the stripping process. The becoming was more of a gift, a reward for coming so far. Just as much, it was a punishment. A heavy shackle on one’s soul. Geralt would never be rid of that part of himself, the weight tied to his ankles that took the form of a great white wolf. 

He missed his wings. 

He once leapt off of the bastion’s towers on one last whim of hope that at the last minute his body would remember who he truly was and transform back. All that happened was breaking both his legs and being bed bound with Vesemir’s heavy look of disappointment and the endless heartbreak as he grasped at his bare back, sobbing and shaking, searching for his feathers. Searching for his wings. 

After a while the longing for wind under his feathers faded. It became replaced by a primal urge to run. 

He felt that urge now, stronger than any urge before. It was Ciri who stopped him from shifting back and scooping Jaskier up in his arms, making an uphill bolt toward where Kaer Morhen awaited still several hours away. 

“He won’t make it if we keep going,” she said in a hushed, serious tone. They were both crouched over Jaskier’s writhing form, Geralt had shoved his bedroll underneath the bard’s head and tried to force some water into him, but he’d promptly choked and coughed the water up all over himself. Geralt hadn’t risked it again, even if Jaskier was definitely dehydrated. 

“Ciri,” he murmured back. “Can you be very brave for me?”

Eyes widening, the girl nodded. 

“I need you to take Roach and ride up the path on your own. She knows the way, let her guide herself. When you reach the keep- you remember what the gates look like, you remember how to knock- tell whoever greets you that my bard is injured, that we’re down the pass and need  _ help _ . It’ll probably be Vesemir this time of year. He’ll know what to do. Can you do that for me, Ciri? Can you be my brave lion cub?”

“Yes.” Ciri said, standing up and gripping her little hands into fists. 

“Thank you, brave girl.” And then- upon looking at her terribly frightened look, eyebrows knit as if she were angered and jaw set, but still so afraid- he added, “He’s going to be alright, I promise.”

-

A deep russet colored wolf crept through the underbrush, belly pressed to the ground, paws digging into the soft spring dirt. He scented something on the air, something familiar, and yet the unknown undertones of the scent put him on edge. Clay, earth, dust- he knew that scent. Blossom, sweat, something sweet- like honeysuckle, and coppered blood. 

Ears pricked, he followed the sound of hooves beating the earth all the way up the path to the keep. 

Ciri had dismounted Roach and was banging desperately against the oak doors by the time Lambert shifted back and ran forward. 

“Woah, cub, where’s the fire?” He called, frowning with arms out tentatively in case she became frightened, or ran forward to embrace him. Really, Lambert was very unsure how to read the situation.

“What?” Ciri spun around, frowned deep and shook her head. “No fire! Jaskier!”

Alright, that explained absolutely nothing. Lambert scented the air again- caught that blossom and blood- and his eyes went wide. He stepped forward and knelt down, grabbing Ciri’s shoulders and looking her over. 

“You hurt?” He asked hurriedly. “Where’s Geralt? Why’d he leave you alone like this?”

“He’s down the pass. Jaskier needs  _ help _ !” Ciri insisted again and grabbed at Lambert’s hand, his palm larger than her little hand as she yanked him toward the pass. “Hurry!”

“Fuck, alright- hold on, cub, get Roach inside the courtyard.” Lambert redirected the determined girl, guiding her and the chestnut mare through the gates and into the inner yard. Vesemir, with that fatherly sixth sense for his pups in danger, was already there and glancing at Lambert with a furrowed brow.   
“Cub, pup?” He greeted warily. “What’s the problem here?” 

“Geralt’s with someone down the pass, someone hurt.” Lambert replied roughly and led Ciri to the older wolf’s side. “I’ll go down and handle it, but uh- prep the medical supplies. To be safe.”

The scent of blood and blossom was rich with something rotting, something sickly. Infection. 

-

Jaskier had taken one look at Lambert through a fevered and glassy haze and absolutely lost his shit. The bard began to panic, writhing and shivering under Geralt’s firm hold. 

“G-get away!” He shouted shrilly. “Geralt!  _ Geralt _ !”

“I’m right here,” Geralt promised, holding Jaskier tight around the chest and trying to immobilize his torn shoulder to keep the thin scab from splitting. “You’re safe, Jask.”

“Calm down, myszka,” Lambert grunted, holding down Jaskier’s knees when he tried to kick wildly at him. “We’re tryin’a help.”

“He’s going to hate that nickname once he’s lucid.” Geralt muttered and shoved his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in his scent and whispering something quiet against his skin that even Lambert’s Witcher senses couldn’t pick up. The bard whimpered and stilled, head tilted toward Geralt. 

“Yeah, well, we all get saddled with a dumb nickname eventually up here.” Lambert pulled back and moved to Jaskier’s side to help Geralt lift him. “C’mon. Let’s get your bard home.”

-

Vesemir had extensively prepared Eskel’s room- which had been empty since last winter and would remain so until next winter- and as soon as Lambert and Geralt returned holding a bard who smelled of mouse, wolf, and decay, he was placed on the stripped bare mattress and Geralt forced out of the room. 

“What the hell?” He snarled, trying to fight Vesemir’s vice grip as he hauled the wolf by the collar out of Eskel’s room and dumped him in the hallway. “Vesemir! Let me see him!”  
“You and I both know you can’t help him in this state.” The elder wolf told Geralt. “Lambert and I will clean out his wounds and bandage him once more. You, Wolf, need to calm your daughter. She’s worrying up a storm in the main hall.”

Standing with his head tucked to his chest, hair falling over his eyes, Geralt huffed dismissively. “Fine.” He muttered. He couldn’t disobey Vesemir, as much as he burned to burst in, to hold Jaskier’s hand tight and place his head against the bard’s chest, listen to the soft beat of his heart. If he wasn’t listening, it would slip away. 

He couldn’t lose the only man he’d ever loved. 


End file.
